The Art of Deception (12 page)

“Corot's treatment of light,” Adam began, taking a small sip. “It gives all of his work such deep perspective.”

No ploy could've worked better. Fairchild was ready to roll. “I'm very partial to Corot. He had such a fine hand with details without being finicky and obscuring the overall painting. Now the leaves,” he began, and set down his drink to point them out. While the lecture went on, Adam set down his own drink, picked up Fairchild's and enjoyed the Scotch.

Upstairs Kirby found the Titian already wrapped in heavy paper. “Bless you, Cards,” she murmured. She checked her watch and made herself wait a full ten minutes before she picked up the painting and left the room. Quietly she moved down the back stairs and out to where her car waited.

In the parlor, Adam studied Fairchild as he sat in the corner of the sofa, snoring. Deciding the least he could do was to make his host more comfortable, Adam started to swing Fairchild's legs onto the couch. The sound of a car engine stopped him. Adam was at the window in time to see Kirby's Porsche race down the drive.

“You're going to have company,” he promised her. Within moments, he was behind the wheel of the Rolls.

The surge of speed added to Kirby's sense of adventure. She drove instinctively while she concentrated on her task for the evening. It helped ease the guilt over Adam, a bit.

A quarter mile from the gallery, she stopped and parked on the side of the road. Grateful that the Titian was relatively small, though the frame added weight, she
gathered it up again and began to walk. Her heels echoed on the asphalt.

Clouds drifted across the moon, obscuring the light then freeing it again. With her cape swirling around her, Kirby walked into the cover of trees that bordered the gallery. The light was dim, all shadows and secrets. Up ahead came the low moan of an owl. Tossing back her hair, she laughed.

“Perfect,” she decided. “All we need is a rumble of thunder and a few streaks of lightning. Skulking through the woods on a desperate mission,” she mused. “Surrounded by the sounds of night.” She shifted the bundle in her arms and continued on. “What one does for those one loves.”

She could see the stately red brick of the gallery through the trees. Moonlight slanted over it. Almost there, she thought with a quick glance at her watch. In an hour she'd be back home—and perhaps she'd have the lemon trifle after all.

A hand fell heavily on her shoulder. Her cape spread out like wings as she whirled. Great buckets of blood, she thought as she stared up at Adam.

“Out for a stroll?” he asked her.

“Why, hello, Adam.” Since she couldn't disappear, she had to face him down. She tried a friendly smile. “What are you doing out here?”

“Following you.”

“Flattering. But wasn't Papa entertaining you?”

“He dozed off.”

She stared up at him a moment, then let out a breath. A wry smile followed it. “I suppose he deserved it. I hope you left him comfortable.”

“Enough. Now what's in the package?”

Though she knew it was useless, she fluttered her lashes. “Package?”

He tapped his finger on the wrapping.

“Oh, this package. Just a little errand I have to run. It's getting late, shouldn't you be starting back?”

“Not a chance.”

“No.” She moved her shoulders. “I thought not.”

“What's in the package, Kirby, and what do you intend to do with it?”

“All right.” She thrust the painting into his arms because hers were tiring. When the jig was up, you had to make the best of it. “I suppose you deserve an explanation, and you won't leave until you have one anyway. It has to be the condensed version, Adam, I'm running behind schedule.” She laid a hand on the package he held. “This is the Titian woman, and I'm going to put it in the gallery.”

He lifted a brow. He didn't need Kirby to tell him that he held a painting. “I was under the impression that the Titian woman was in the gallery.”

“No…” She drew out the word. If she could have thought of a lie, a half-truth, a fable, she'd have used it. She could only think of the truth. “This is a Titian,” she told him with a nod to the package. “The painting in the gallery is a Fairchild.”

He let the silence hang a moment while the moonlight filtered over her face. She looked like an angel…or a witch. “Your father forged a Titian and palmed it off on the gallery as an original?”

“Certainly not!” Indignation wasn't feigned. Kirby bit back on it and tried to be patient. “I won't tell you any more if you insult my father.”

“I don't know what came over me.”

“All right then.” She leaned back against a tree. “Perhaps I should start at the beginning.”

“Good choice.”

“Years ago, Papa and Harriet were vacationing in Europe. They came across the Titian, each one swearing they'd seen it first. Neither one would give way, and it would've been criminal to let the painting go altogether. They compromised.” She gestured at the package. “Each paid half, and Papa painted a copy. They rotate ownership of the original every six months, alternating with the copy, if you get the drift. The stipulation was that neither of them could claim ownership. Harriet kept hers in the gallery—not listing it as part of her private collection. Papa kept it in a guest room.”

He considered for a moment. “That's too ridiculous for you to have made up.”

“Of course I didn't make it up.” As it could, effectively, her bottom lip pouted. “Don't you trust me?”

“No. You're going to do a lot more explaining when we get back.”

Perhaps, Kirby thought. And perhaps not.

“Now just how do you intend to get into the gallery?”

“With Harriet's keys.”

“She gave you her keys?”

Kirby let out a frustrated breath. “Pay attention, Adam. Harriet's furious about Stuart selling the painting, but until she studies the contracts there's no way to know how binding the sale is. It doesn't look good, and we can't take a chance on having the painting tested—my father's painting, that is. If the procedure were sophisticated enough, it might prove that the painting's not sixteenth-century.”

“Harriet's aware that a forgery's hanging in her gallery?”

“An emulation, Adam.”

“And are there any other…emulations in the Merrick Gallery?”

She gave him a long, cool look. “I'm trying not to be annoyed. All of Harriet's paintings are authentic, as is her half of the Titian.”

“Why didn't she replace it herself?”

“Because,” Kirby began and checked her watch. Time was slipping away from her. “Not only would it have been difficult for her to disappear from the party early as we did, but it would've been awkward altogether. The night watchman could report to Stuart that she came to the gallery in the middle of the night carrying a package. He might put two and two together. Yes, even he might add it up.”

“So what'll the night watchman have to say about Kirby Fairchild coming into the gallery in the middle of the night?”

“He won't see us.” Her smile was quick and very, very smug.

“Us?”

“Since you're here.” She smiled at him again, and meant it. “I've told you everything, and being a gentleman you'll help me make the switch. We'll have to work quickly. If we're caught, we'll just brazen it out. You won't have to do anything, I'll handle it.”

“You'll handle it.” He nodded at the drifting clouds. “We can all sleep easy now. One condition.” He stopped her before she could speak. “When we're done, if we're not in jail or hospitalized, I want to know it all. If we are in jail, I'll murder you as slowly as possible.”

“That's two conditions,” she muttered. “But all right.”

They watched each other a moment, one wondering how much would have to be divulged, one wondering how much could be learned. Both found the deceit unpleasant.

“Let's get it done.” Adam gestured for her to go first.

Kirby walked across the grass and went directly to the main door. From the deep pocket of her cloak, she drew out keys.

“These two switch off the main alarm,” she explained as she turned keys in a series of locks. “And these unbolt the door.” She smiled at the faint click of tumblers. Turning, she studied Adam, standing behind her in his elegant dinner suit. “I'm so glad we dressed for it.”

“Seems right to dress formally when you're breaking into a distinguished institution.”

“True.” Kirby dropped the keys back in her pocket. “And we do make a rather stunning couple. The Titian hangs in the west room on the second floor. The watchman has a little room in the back, here on the main floor. I assume he drinks black coffee laced with rum and reads pornographic magazines. I would. He's supposed to make rounds hourly, though there's no way to be certain he's diligent.”

“And what time does he make them, if he does?”

“On the hour—which gives us twenty minutes.” She glanced at her watch and shrugged. “That's adequate, though if you hadn't pressed me for details we'd've had more time. Don't scowl,” she added. She pressed her finger to her lips and slipped through the door.

From out of the depths of her pocket came a flashlight. They followed the narrow beam over the carpet. Together they moved up the staircase.

Obviously she knew the gallery well. Without hesi
tation, she moved through the dark, turning on the second floor and marching down the corridor without breaking rhythm. Her cape swirled out as she pivoted into a room. In silence she played her light over paintings until it stopped on the copy of the Titian that had hung in Adam's room.

“There,” Kirby whispered as the light shone on the sunset hair Titian had immortalized. The light was too poor for Adam to be certain of the quality, but he promised himself he'd examine it minutes later.

“It's not possible to tell them apart—not even an expert.” She knew what he was thinking. “Harriet's a respected authority, and she couldn't. I'm not sure the tests wouldn't bear it out as authentic. Papa has a way of treating the paints.” She moved closer so that her light illuminated the entire painting. “Papa put a red circle on the back of the copy's frame so they could be told apart. I'll take the package now,” she told him briskly. “You can get the painting down.” She knelt and began to unwrap the painting they'd brought with them. “I'm glad you happened along,” she decided. “Your height's going to be an advantage when it comes to taking down and putting up again.”

Adam paused with the forgery in his hands. Throttling her would be too noisy at the moment, he decided. But later… “Let's have it then.”

In silence they exchanged paintings. Adam replaced his on the wall, while Kirby wrapped the other. After she'd tied the string, she played the light on the wall again. “It's a bit crooked,” she decided. “A little to the left.”

“Look, I—” Adam broke off at the sound of a faint, tuneless whistle.

“He's early!” Kirby whispered as she gripped the
painting. “Who expects efficiency from hired help these days?”

In a quick move, Adam had the woman, the painting and himself pressed against the wall by the archway. Finding herself neatly sandwiched, and partially smothered, Kirby held back a desperate urge to giggle. Certain it would annoy Adam, she held her breath and swallowed.

The whistle grew louder.

In her mind's eye, Kirby pictured the watchman strolling down the corridor, pausing to shine his light here and there as he walked. She hoped, for the watchman's peace of mind and Adam's disposition, the search was cursory.

Adam felt her trembling and held her tighter. Somehow he'd manage to protect her. He forgot that she'd gotten him into the mess in the first place. Now his only thought was to get her out of it.

A beam of light streamed past the doorway, with the whistle close behind. Kirby shook like a leaf. The light bounced into the room, sweeping over the walls in a curving arch. Adam tensed, knowing discovery was inches away. The light halted, rested a moment, then streaked away over its original route. And there was darkness.

They didn't move, though Kirby wanted to badly, with the frame digging into her back. They waited, still and silent, until the whistling receded.

Because her light trembling had become shudder after shudder, Adam drew her away to whisper reassurance. “It's all right. He's gone.”

“You were wonderful.” She covered her mouth to muffle the laughter. “Ever thought about making breaking and entering a hobby?”

He slid the painting under one arm, then took a firm grip on hers. When the time was right, he'd pay her back for this one. “Let's go.”

“Okay, since it's probably a bad time to show you around. Pity,” she decided. “There are some excellent engravings in the next room, and a really marvelous still life Papa painted.”

“Under his own name?”

“Really, Adam.” They paused at the hallway to make certain it was clear. “That's tacky.”

They didn't speak again until they were hidden by the trees. Then Adam turned to her. “I'll take the painting and follow you back. If you go over fifty, I'll murder you.”

She stopped when they reached the cars, then threw him off balance with suddenly serious eyes. “I appreciate everything, Adam. I hope you don't think too badly of us. It matters.”

He ran a finger down her cheek. “I've yet to decide what I think of you.”

Her lips curved up at the corners. “That's all right then. Take your time.”

“Get in and drive,” he ordered before he could forget what had to be resolved. She had a way of making a man forget a lot of things. Too many things.

The trip back took nearly twice the time, as Kirby stayed well below the speed limit. Again she left the Porsche out front, knowing Cards would handle the details. Once inside, she went straight to the parlor.